Biscuits
by tussis
Summary: A history of biscuits throughout Ronald’s existence and his hands after baking and before eating. Molly’s, the Hogwarts elves’ and Hermione Granger’s biscuits and… Ronald Weasley’s love for each one of them. RonHermione oneshot


**AN **- I had this story halfway written (ALL my stories are halfway written, btw..) and I didn't want to study so I thought I'd give it the last touches it so desperately needed. A bit of fluff, nothing really serious. Enjoy!

**AN2 **- Many thanks to Lina for beta'ing and taking care of the continually kicking with which I present the English language.

"BISCUITS!"

By the time he was six years old, Ronald Bilius Weasley had long learned to recognize the scent of his mother's biscuits. Traceable from miles away.

"I can even smell them from that bush behind the backyard!" he had wisely confessed to his father's ear once.

And that was exactly what happened on that hot afternoon, when the sweet aroma filled the air. A cute little figure, wearing a maroon jumper and tarnished trousers with several mud stains, crossed the back door of the Burrow and sprinted his little way down the always crowded kitchen. He stepped on his little sister. He elbowed his twin brothers (not escaping without a quick, unnoticeable smack on the head, though). He shouted at his oldest brother to "give some space, mate!". His father, leaning on the counter casually and watching the whole scene in perfect silence, chuckled silently as his youngest son passed right through him. Perfect silence. Exactly what his mother did not accept. She shot a dagger glance at the other pseudo-responsible progenitor, before trying to cry out a warning to her child.

Too late.

Ronald had already reached the big table. With the strong wooded platform scarcely showing his head from the opposite side, Ron pulled the nearest chair and, in a pure and seemingly traditional gesture, leaped onto the seat with both feet. His small hand crept the surface of the old table, eager to get to the bowl in the middle. His eyes twinkled mischievously when he shoved his little fingers into the bright red cup and the tips felt that characteristic, harsh touch. Without even looking at the biscuits, Ron jammed them three at a time in his mouth. That mouth, suddenly so capable of holding such a big amount of not-fish substance.

_First Rule: Taste the first biscuit with your eyes closed and a knowing smile._

Knowing their youngest brother and their mother's ability in the kitchen, the twins and Ginevra hurried to the table as well. But suddenly something shadowed Ronald's little existence. Or his body. As he forced another biscuit down his childish mouth, his vision darkened and he felt his small hands (already going for another run at the bowl) being enclosed into something. He sheepishly looked up and felt the rest of his mother speciality sliding pleasingly down his throat. Molly's face hovered over his, staring at him in a fearsome way, his hands caught in hers. But even by this age Ron already knew that his mother couldn't keep up with that angry façade for a long time. Not if she kept looking at him like that. Ron tried smiling. Ah, there it was! Molly's lips flickered dangerously until they opened in a wide, happy grin. Ron lingered on his mother's face a little longer but, as his real interest was still and after all her biscuits, he lowered his gaze and tried to free his hands from his mother's grip.

She chuckled softly. "No. Oh, no, Ronniekins. Slow down now, dear. No one can keep up with _that _velocity!"

"Yes!" Ron nodded and grinned, agreeing cheerfully with his mother's comment.

Molly glanced at Arthur with a beam and let go of her son, stroking the top of his red head affectionately. Ron took the opportunity and threw his hands at the bowl. At the _empty_ bowl.

He looked around. Of course he had found the disappearance of _all_ his siblings strange but he would never account it on the ending of the provisions! He swirled around in his chair and shouted, "Mum!"

"Ronald, there is no need to yell. I'm only right here!" she scolded.

"They eat all the biscuits!"

"They did?" Molly asked in a false impressed tone.

"Yes, they did."

"And you want more?"

"Of course, Mummy!" He saw on Molly's face the missing word. Very important if he wanted anything in this unfair world, he had learned. "Please."

His mother sighed and rolled her eyes, before smiling. "Ready in half an hour, dear."

"Biscuits!"

Ronald Bilius Weasley, sixth year student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, ran down the House tables that divided the Great Hall to eagerly reach the biscuits he had smelt from the wooden doors. He didn't even sit properly before jamming the adored biscuits down his throat. His bottom was half way falling of the seat, as Hermione Jane Granger platonically noticed to herself.

_Seventh Rule: A little pumpkin juice to help the substance go down, but not too much or it'll take the sweet flavour again._

Ron never did notice as Hermione, who was accompanying him before he'd make that run for the table, slithered calmly through the excited students. His eyes didn't even flicker up, down, to any side, when she slid down to his side.

No, he was too busy eating biscuits.

"Honestly, Ronald, what are you-- six?"

He chose to ignore the comment and not give the bushy haired girl the satisfaction of watching him mumble for an excuse. Wisely enough, he preferred to glue his eyes to the red bowl on his right.

Not getting any response, Hermione started to serve herself quietly and slowly.

Ron finally looked up and as he watched her brushing a tawny lock away from her eyes he felt a sudden suffocating and somehow at the same time drowning urge, burning up and down his throat to ask her if she would make biscuits like those when they'd marry. But her eyes leaning on her ever twitching hands, as he quickly noticed, made him slowly close his clumsy mouth. He decided for a different remark, in a field he was comfortable on.

"Hermione, have you tasted these biscuits? They're marvellous!"

"Yes, Ron, I have. I tried them in the begging of the year and have eaten them throughout it, everyday. But you don't seem to remember that because you ask me the same thing every time the elves make them. Which is everyday. And we're in May," she replied sharply.

Ron remained in silence.

"Where is Harry?" said Hermione, seemingly waking from a trance.

"He's sleeping."

"Sleeping! And you didn't wake him? What if we had classes?"

"If we had classes I'd have woken him up. We don't, so… Let the poor bloke sleep. He fairly needs it."

Hermione shifted on her seat as a small smile crept to her face.

"What?" Ron inquired.

"Nothing," she answered, her smile growing into a grin.

"Well…" he said, racking his brain to find a theme. "You know, when I was a little boy, my mother made biscuits a lot. And they changed flavours every day of the week. Of course, my mother didn't make them all the time, but enough times for me to know at the age of six all the days of the week. And then one day, when I got my first crayons, the first drawing I made in my life consisted of my mother's biscuits. Just don't ask me to explain why the coconut ones were purple."

Hermione chuckled and Ron realised he had no idea why he had told her that. But she smiled warmly at him and he felt tempted to ask her if she wanted his mother's recipe for when they'd be married.

In the end, he just grinned back.

"Biscuits."

Ronald Bilius Weasley, Auror and Chaser for the Chudley Canons, sat colourlessly on his bed, body tangled in the white big sheets. His flat stomach retrained in surprise and his lips curled in a smile that didn't show any thrill. His brows slowly knotted in thinking, perhaps in how to get to the door before the enemy.

Standing on the door frame was Hermione Jane Granger Weasley, wearing a light nightgown and her hair carelessly picked up. Her head tilted to the left, accompanied by squinted chocolate eyes. But then again, she was getting the sun directly in her face. The right strap was sliding down her shoulder and she was beautiful, but she was carrying a tray.

"Oh, please, please, contain your happiness," she mocked.

Ron decided to start off with an unclear sentence. "Oh, Hermione…"

"Yes, Ronnie dear."

"We have... We have talked this over, right? Why put ourselves through the same misery again?" He threw his arms in the air, a worried expression craved in his face. "Honestly, one experience like that is more than enough for a lifetime."

He stopped to gained stupid courage. "At least, one like eating your biscuits."

Hermione opened her mouth in horror. A sound came out, but she probably wasn't happy with it, because she ended up starting over again. Setting the tray on the edge of the bed and her hands softly on her hips, she slowly breathed out. "And why won't you trust me, husband dear?"

"You may be an old Hogwarts student, foolishly turned Death Eater after the end of the War and out to get me because I accidentally hexed you with _Stupify_ while on of those Dumbledore's army meetings things!"

"I cannot believe it. I cannot believe it! You simply won't trust me, right?" She stretched her neck, apparently searching in the air around for an answer from him. "What will I have to do? Slap you in the face so you'll eat them? Punish you and tell you to stare at some corner for a couple of hours?"

"We could always go to the store and get some cream."

"Oh, no! Don't you dare! I spent the energy of moving my wrist to mix the flour and the butter and… and then hexing the oven door open! And all I get is a pure 'yuck'! NO. NO! This will not be it. You _will_ eat it. Eat it."

"Hermione."

"Eat it."

Ron chuckled uneasily. "Come on, love."

"EAT IT."

His shoulders sank. So Hermione was a bad cook. It wasn't the end of the world. They could always order or something. He could even ask his mother to take charge of their alimentation. After all, he'd been under her control in the feeding department for most of his life and he was perfectly healthy. But he knew Hermione would never forgive him for that. Maybe she'd arrange vengeance through another pie and he was just not ready for that. No, not yet. He still had to find the cure for green chicken pox.

"Why… why did you make them again?" he asked, trying to gain some time.

"It has some adjustments."

"And when you say 'adjustments', you mean some change in the baking process, right, or maybe substitute the flour with cyanide…"

Hermione tsked impatiently. "Ron, don't be silly. You could notice that by the colour of the biscuits!" So she had done some research, he concluded. "Now eat."

Ron lifted one biscuit to the height of his eyes, before gazing at it for a long time.

"You cannot swallow it with your sight, you know."

Ron chuckled faintly. And finally opened his mouth to die.

One bite and he was out of this world.

And one bite he gave that biscuit.

_Fifth Rule: Always greet the cook when you eat more than two items on your own will._

And… and he did not die. He sort of… enjoyed it. It was sweet and it tasted like vanilla, his favourite.

"So?"

"Well. It's… it's kind of good."

She smiled smugly. "I know."

Ron did not know much about apologies. One thing he knew though and that was that Hermione rather liked it when he kissed her so… imagine what he did?

He simply ate another biscuit.

With her.

**THE END**


End file.
